Page 4 of The Groupie

“Don’t go…” I say and then stop myself because an apology for barging in would be hypocritical. “Do you hang out at this place?”

“Sure. After every home game,” she says.

“Game?” I give her a blank look, but she stands and waves, then rounds up her friends around the table to leave with her. I notice the guys at the end of the table grinning and gesturing in Zak’s direction as Sheila talks to them.

“Guess it is about time to leave,” Zak says, turning me on his lap in a delicious move to face him. “Were you going to stay, or can I give you a ride somewhere?” His eyes have that glazed intensity that spells sexual arousal, and I feel mine answering back, along with all the juices in me.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “How about to oblivion and back.” I haven’t had a chance to have one drink. So I grab his half-full mug from the table and swig it down. I’m not exactly a chicken, but something about this guy’s intensity calls for a boost to my courage. All I’m looking for is one night’s distraction, but a frisson of nerves zips through me like a warning sign that he may be more than I can handle—and I don’t mean physically, though he is a big guy.

“You’re thirsty,” he says. “My bad. I didn’t even buy you a beer. We can stay for one more if you want—”

“Hey, Zak—you coming?” One of the other guys throws a jacket in his direction and flashes me a smile. He has one of the women tucked under his other arm.

Zak says to me under his breath. “That’s my ride—or our ride.” He raises a brow and one corner of his mouth in question.

“How about if I’m your ride instead?”

A slow smile lazes over his face. “I like you, Rylee. You’re my kind of bold. I’ll take you up on that ride.”

He helps me off his lap and takes his time standing, the bulge in his pants causing him obvious discomfort as his buddies snicker.

“I’m going with the lady. This is Rylee.” He rattles off the names of three guys and the two women with them.

“Sorry we have to run,” One of the guys says to me, “but we have—”

Zak cuts him off. “See you later.”

He sweeps me into his arm, taking possession of me like we’re together, and we follow the others. I try to keep my limp to a minimum. Other patrons shout good night and good luck and all kinds of things, and I’m wondering who these guys are because everyone knows them.

They must be regulars at this place, and I’m glad I stumbled into a friendly neighborhood bar in Boston because I wasn’t sure there were any left. Figured they were all tourist joints or overrun by business suits. The Tea Party seems different.

“Let me buy you a drink first,” he says, stopping at the last high top before we get to the door. “What’ll you have?”

“Jack Daniels, straight up.”

He blows out a whistle.

“Don’t be shocked. I can handle it.”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

We sit down though on separate bar stools. Too bad, because his lap was comfortable, and sitting on him was a lot like foreplay. But my ankle is throbbing, so I’ll sit anywhere. The whiskey should help, though ice would work better. The super attentive server, wearing a name tag over her ample left breast that says Liz, comes rushing over as soon as Zak looks in her direction.

“Two Jack Daniels, straight up.”

“Going for the heavy stuff tonight? I thought you only ordered whiskey when you—”

“Tonight is special,” he says, cutting her off. The girl flicks a glance at me, and I smile. She doesn’t. Shit, this guy’s popular with the ladies, but I shouldn’t be surprised because he’s got a lot going for him in the looks and body department—especially one particular part of his anatomy.

The girl leaves, and he clears his throat.

“What’s wrong with your ankle?”

“You noticed that? I thought I was doing well.”

“I’ve seen a few ankle injuries and recognize the signs. I know how subtly favoring one side affects a person’s gait.”

“What are you, an orthopedics doctor or physical therapist?”